


can't quite tell what I'm hoping for

by godtrashed



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Gen, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtrashed/pseuds/godtrashed
Summary: The first time Griffin touches him, Brian flinches.





	can't quite tell what I'm hoping for

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Masin (masinsam)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masinsam/gifts).



> one day I will post fic _without_ polygon dot com's video team doing something to emotionally devastate me first. one day! but not today.
> 
> (I joke. this was written mostly yesterday, for masin, [whose universe this is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128734).)
> 
> anyway: this is rated T for cursing but also E for Emotions Everywhere. gonna just throw it at the wall and run.

The first time Griffin touches him, Brian flinches.

“Hey,” says Griffin, voice low, and draws back. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to, which is giving Brian space. It’s summer in New York and the whole apartment is suffocating, the air sticking to Brian’s skin like a wet t-shirt. There’s no way he can wave away how shaky he is; Griffin’s perceptive, and Brian’s nowhere near coherent enough to lie. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He needs to say something, and he knows it, but his tongue feels like a dead thing in his mouth and his brain is too far ahead of his body to put together an actual meaningful sentence. He laughs, breathless, airless, like he’s choking. It’s hard to look at Griffin. He’s an idiot, he’s spiralling, but he knows in his gut that if he looks at Griffin, then Griffin will be able to see -- he doesn’t know what. Something that’s not Griffin’s problem. “Sorry,” he says; the word sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Wow. That’s not -- anything? It’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t even know what that--”

“Brian,” says Griffin. It has real weight to it, his name in Griffin’s voice, like a hand pressing on his shoulder, guiding him down to his knees. It’s stupid. He’s so stupid. It’s just Griffin saying his name. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Breathe, he reminds himself. Breathe _properly._ It’s so goddamn hard to slow down.

“I’m gonna ask a couple of questions,” Griffin says, measured and even like he can hear Brian’s thoughts running riot. “You don’t need to say anything, okay? It’s just yes or no stuff, so you can nod or shake your head and that’s all I’m gonna need. Can you do that for me, Brian?”

He’s a complete failure; he can’t even be trusted to talk, and talking’s most of his job. Still, his chest hurts with gratitude. He nods his head, just once.

“Good.” Griffin shifts his weight a little on the bed, angling himself to look at Brian head-on. “Okay. Question one. Do you want me to touch you when we’re doing this? And, uh. When I say _touching_ I mean, like, the lightest and least intrusive possible physical contact. For pressure, or reassurance -- that kind of thing. Do you want that?”

Brian swallows, and nods.

“Question two,” Griffin says, like it’s that easy -- like he can take Brian’s worst, neediest self in his stride, simple as that. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t reach to touch Brian at all. “You’re stressed out about that. About wanting that. Right?”

Guilt lances through him like a spike, sharp enough that for one wild moment he thinks he’s going to barf. He can’t move. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to explain.

“Brian,” says Griffin, firmer than before. The weight of it settles on his shoulders, steadies him that crucial little bit. “I got you. You’re okay. Can you tell me yes or no?”

This is stupid, and he knows it. He shouldn’t be this much of a mess over a simple goddamn question; he’s an adult, he’s meant to be a media professional, he’s meant to be _better_ than this. He stares at his knees, nods quick and jerky before he can shut himself down. He wonders, chest tight, when Griffin started to regret offering him the job.

“That’s okay.” Finally, _finally_ Griffin shifts a shade closer to Brian; he feels it like a drop in the temperature, a little shiver running all through him. “Hey. Can you look at me, bud?”

He grimaces, can’t help it for an instant. There’s no way he can explain why he does it regardless -- takes a breath, lifts his head enough to hold Griffin’s gaze. Griffin’s smiling, pleased. Pleased with _him_. There’s nothing but warmth in his eyes. “Question three,” he says. “Yes or no. Do you wanna try and work through that with me? We can go real slow, and I promise you’ll always have an out if you need it. I’m not gonna push you if you need to hit the brakes.”

Brian’s flushed all down his neck, prickling with heat like his skin’s turned into needles; he can’t tell what’s shame and what’s the summer sun. He nods, once. It’s the hardest thing in the world to keep meeting Griffin’s eyes.

Griffin smiles again, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Brian’s heart misses a step on the way down the stairs, lurches in his chest to set itself right; it’s the weirdest adrenaline rush, waiting for disapproval and getting the opposite back. “You did so good,” he says, sincere in a way that feels, in its own right, kind of like getting punched. “Hey, stay with me. Stay here. You don’t have to worry about anything right now, remember? I’ve got it. You’re fine.”

“Sorry,” says Brian, weakly, trying to brush it off and smile. If he doesn’t quite pin down the sentiment, at least he nails the part where his face muscles coordinate and make something happen. “God. I don’t wanna make you… I mean, I don’t do this when I’m stressed out at work, or anything.”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Griffin insists. “I promise, I get it -- you don’t have to explain. All I need you to do is be here with me.” He pauses, really _looks_ at Brian, like he’s trying to see past his skin. He feels paper-thin, like whatever borders separate him from the atmosphere are falling slowly apart; Griffin could see right through him, he thinks, if he tried. “I’m gonna put my hand on your back. Okay? You can -- you don’t need to hide it, if you’re anxious about it. I don’t want that, and it’s not gonna hurt my feelings or anything if you need some time to process. But I’m gonna need you to tell me if you need me to back off. Are you okay with that, Brian?”

His face muscles give up on smiling as one. It’s okay, it has to be okay. He doesn’t have to keep it up. “Yeah,” he says, breathless. “Uh. Yes. A-okay on, uh. On all of that.”

Griffin doesn’t quite laugh at him; he just smiles, soft, and rests the flat of his hand gently between Brian’s shoulderblades.

Brian flinches. Of course he does. It’s -- he can’t explain it, not really, how it’s harder to keep it together in the face of this sort of tenderness than when Pat, Simone and Justin are doing a three-way BDG roast live on stream. It doesn’t make sense to him, and it’s his goddamn problem; there’s no way it would make sense to Griffin. Then again -- Griffin stays put, undeterred. “It’s okay,” he says, and he puts a little more weight into his hand, and Brian’s breath flutters and catches in his throat. “You’re okay.” His head falls forward. He closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, fervent; it’s choking him, suddenly, this awful unnameable guilt, and he’s going to die if he doesn’t make Griffin understand. “I’m sorry, this isn’t you, this isn’t anything, I swear, I’m just--”

“Shh.” And all at once Griffin’s _stroking_ him, his palm warm through Brian’s shirt as he rubs little circles into his spine. The words stall out and die in his throat. “Shh, you’re fine, you’re doing great. Just take it easy, Brian. Can you breathe for me? Real nice and slow.”

He does his best -- tries to measure out his breathing by the motions of Griffin’s hand. In and out. Slow and steady. He’s counting his breaths, one after the other, until he isn’t; it’s too hard to focus, getting harder every moment. There’s an ache building slowly in his shoulders and his neck, dull and insistent as his muscles remember just how long they’ve been wound too tight. It’s okay. It doesn’t have to matter. He barely feels it anyway, with Griffin’s hand so warm and so steady on his back; the world shrinks down until it’s just his bedroom, just his body, just that perfect point of contact between them. He hears himself make the most awful, broken-up sound on the exhale, eyes shut, head bowed. Griffin doesn’t miss a beat. “I got you,” he says again, soft. Closer than he was, somehow; his voice occupies every part of Brian’s mind. “You’re doing so good for me. I’m gonna put my arm around you, okay? Just real slow. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

He thinks he manages a yes, or something like it -- some threadbare little hum that basically means the same thing. Griffin’s as good as his word. He doesn’t move too fast, doesn’t do anything to shake Brian out of -- wherever he is, whatever’s going on. He moves a little nearer, shifts his hand by degrees until his arm is comfortably wrapped around Brian’s shoulders. He hears himself _groan,_ so unfamiliar that it could be someone else’s voice; every nerve in his body is singing as one, electric and alive at the feel of Griffin’s body against his. It’s so hard not to lean in closer. It’s almost impossible, he wants it so fucking bad, but there has to be a limit. There has to be some unspoken agreement, so obvious that they never needed to set it in stone -- they can sit together like this, sure, but it’s a whole other ballgame to even think about _cuddling_.

“Brian,” says Griffin, and _oh,_ he’s so close; Brian’s own name reverberates all through his body, like the perfect chord to resolve a song. He’s stroking Brian’s shoulder where his hand’s come to rest, just enough pressure that it sings against his skin. “You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to prove anything to me right now. Just relax for me, okay?”

It’s okay; it’s so okay. He could cry with the relief of it, the way the whole world disappears as he lets himself rest against Griffin’s shoulder; it’s like sinking into warm water, safe and buoyed up while his whole body exhales and falls slack. Griffin murmurs quiet reassurances against his hair, holding him steady as he drifts, his fingertips grazing the skin where Brian’s shirtsleeve ends. He can barely understand what he’s hearing. Still, he believes every word.

He can’t explain it; he doesn’t try. Brian breathes out, and lets himself be.


End file.
